


Beholden to the thought of you

by Crippledmind_12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Rated For Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crippledmind_12/pseuds/Crippledmind_12
Summary: " It often, I surmise, is the will of the gods, that holds us to atone for our pasts. And I believe that your recollections are not to shame and punish you, but to press you to grow into what you were always meant to be."
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Original Character(s), Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 1
Collections: A Song Of Ice And Fire and Game Of Thrones





	Beholden to the thought of you

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my broken mind. I am one who loves literature and sexual encounters of the imagined ship we all root for called SanSan. I revel in the plot and hope to satisfy with writing close to Canon. This story is of course is based upon the characteristics of George RR. Martins books and also a sprinkle of events from the hit HBO series game of thrones. 
> 
> Note my version of the character's description is somewhat heightened than that of the shows and I did age Sansa a wee bit as I wished for her to be a bit more mature. However, a didn't want to change our beloved couple too much so she is a lot younger than Sandor. But once again this is a medieval universe and things though slightly weird where permissible. 
> 
> I do not own any of the characters mentioned and devote all writings to George RR. Martin.

Chapter 1

" No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them," 

Tully eyes opened to black and solemness. Lashes, formerly coaxed to flutter upon streams of light now to poolings of tears. He always came in shadows, his voice an echoed rasp of grating stone dipped in in the deepest of baritones. It was proved to be all for naught, the burial of her past and all that lay in it. For unfailingly did he come, towering in his stance and giving rise to fear of a little girl thought to be dead. 

" Sandor." Whimpered lips painted in salt and wet, their ruddy plushness faded to parched white. Her slick throat filled to bursting and her hands scratched at eyes fogged with visions of snarled burns. 

Still it was felt, the cold press of steel. A ghost of touch found to be quenched to the pinches distributed to flesh yearning for the same sensation. Yet mourned was the favored bites, their trick knowing to soon be quelled to nothing. 

So legs drew out of silkened mink-furs barbed and confining, and glacial stirrings shifting amongst the chamber kissed flesh weary in mislaid sleep. 

Drawn was she to the vast, arched window and sunken eyes looked to silver. Another full moon had come to pass, it's glinted beams jarring to time now existing between them, between death. Flourished discernment and wisdom were bitterly ratified, for how could one love what was born in stupidities and expenses. 

Vanities birthed solitude and childish ignorance birthed sufferings. There was no other recourse, for she chose to ripen in the demise of him, knowing naught he was the living manifestation of that which was written in her ballads. 

" Are you rested, my beloved?" She whimpered, the warmth of her breath a blanket of fog to the chilled window. 

She wished with her being to be given his answer, the agony in which she felt without a doubt to be stifled in the gods' allowance of holy grace. There was no other balm to her soul, it's fruitless conjurings a lie belaying the truth wrought by her inability to mend. So it was in restless sleep he visited her, fleeting moments that bore the stature of how foolish she once was.

Anguish etched deeper into her bones, the marrow jutting out a declaration of her dwindled will to live. So, consoled to her duties as standing Lady of Winterfell did she draw trivial purpose. As days belonging to that of others wrought out the cusp of her time feared to remember. 

" It is pain tenfold, my love, another day not yet joined with you in death." She brokenly surmised. Her mind flitting to visions of a mighty black courser, it's rider's thickened arms outstretched to whisk her away to the afterlife.

Having been rid of taxing reminiscences, Sansa compelled herself to make haste in her preparation. The kettle resting upon a newly stoked fire begun its heating, its temperatures awaited to ears holding upon a telling whistle. heatings once efficient, were soaked in woven cloth and dabbed at night clutching skin. Finding suitable smallclothes and dresses, slender fingers deftly worked laces and stays, and northern manners were kept to the simple chiffon holding in place tresses of auburn curls. Cheeks were pinched in hopes to bring color and preparations were concluded in their regimen. 

"To no avail," she whispered to the slab of reflection holding the truth of her suffering in cerulean depths. It was chosen then to depart her chambers, its betrothal to miseries and hauntings to much to bear.

Dawn having yet to touch the frigid North, clouded over servants aged in their workings. Unhurriedly dithering about in the early stirrings. Nodding regally here and there, slippers lightly stepped to her father's solar, where pursuant of the worn, black ledger encasing numbers she knew would be jousting fit for the wee hours left of solitude, was held. 

The familiar chambers wrought visions of twinkling laughs and pudgy fingers grasping at leather-clad legs. Their strength only found in the liftings of little feet hugged to worn boots. Eyes followed the shadows cast by the abundant candles lit, and fingers brushed the leathered accounts once held by strong hands known. 

Deducing the dwindled quantities wrought from their harvests, Sansa labored the remedy needed to ensure mouths were feed. The war, now yet to have fully ended, left Winterfell slow in its reprise. It's rebuilding already a great tax born upon weary backs who needed rest. 

" I surmise my Lady rises before that of even the sun." The gentle timbre of the head measter alerted, footsteps seemingly absent to ears filled with ponderings. 

" Thy Lady wouldn't wish to wait in vain, as the sun holds to time not deemed punctual." She confessed, mustering up stirrings of what hoped to be a smile but found to hold more to a grimace. 

Silence stretched out in the dimly lit space, parchments crinkling to hands busy in their duty to conceal one from keen eyes gazing upon her with understanding. 

Transpiring in the highs of fever, the measter, dutiful in his request to alleviate her ailment, was burdened with confessions meant to be hidden. Their abandon whispered keenly in smiles welcoming death. 

" It is still offered, my Lady. The man I bespoke of more than willing to aid. " It was always kindly whispered, and gently implored. But Sansa wished for senses of decorum in the climaxes of her fevers, for she loathed to be discerned in her distress. 

" You needn't bear the weight of it alone, the holy man I'm in kinship to is one who brings rest." She recalled the stirrings out of her sickness, the measter before her holding to the same compassion found in her father's eyes. Mayhaps it had been then that she decided to reveal herself, imploring him to accompany her back to Winterfell. 

" I inquire my lord, has Rickon been keeping to the studies provided," She deduced that even if a mistake to oblige to his compassion, the topic would still be evaded with the mask of courtesy armored upon her passions. 

" I am in remembrance of hardships faced at that age. " She regarded the Measter before her, his grey-robed frame holding to only peaceful prestige. 

He nodded unhurriedly, discerning the line pointed out before them. " It has ascertained to be difficult, but I have found every child grows in their own time." 

Sansa hummed lightly in her throat, her agreement to his sentiment calming the doubt of his vocation. 

His abrupt chuckle rang in the slate stone chamber " But I dare say, it is reversed, our roles, as he has chastised me thrice that fault does not lie with him when he falls asleep, but Measter Thornen and his teachings."

It was then, did a true smile graze her lips " I will make sure to reassure Measter Thornen, as Rickon is nonetheless yet to discern what accompanies being Winterfell's heir. "

It was reminded thus, the blistering day Rickon was returned to her. Many moons had passed, shirking the time Rickon seemed more wolf than a boy. His recoil to teachings of courtesies and human postures were met with screams and strikes as such things were foreign to him knowing only the feral. It was by mercy the gods bestowed that Osha was ardent to him, humanity reigning solely through her raisings. Alas, as tumultuous tears and hardships were faced, and petitions were supplicated, did he gradually come to spur by the gentle cajoling of Osha and herself. " Is she my mother?" Was asked, it's innocence and purity a temptation to the ugliness of divulging him the truth. But those times though heavy were held fondly, it's remembrance welcomed in the months holding indication of its labor bearing fruit.

" He carries a truth forgotten to the likes of those who grow into their fleshly desires. Integrity and expectation of morality around him will, gods willing, be kept in growth" Thoughts now drifting to the tearings of her very innocence and naivety, were uncaged. 

The stripping away had become most evident with the welts born into flesh bared to beady eyes of a golden court. The lickings of steel brandishing reality into flesh wrapped in fictions and lies. Only when the white cloak laid upon quivering shoulders and bared breasts did eyes truly open to the absurdity of beauty held only to those of station. 

" Measter Hellas, do you believe in rest for the passed over. " It was breathed softly, her question audible enough to hear the noted hitch her voice betrayed. 

She daren't look upon eyes she knew held that unsettling compassion. The tremblings her breath brandished deluding the falsehood that this qualm stood trivial to her.

" I acknowledge the gods hold an understanding we know naught of, and in giving rest to the departed there are those bestowed dues to it and those who subsist in never knowing. " 

It was simply offered, but the consequence of it wrought relief held tightly. She had known the hound as a hateful creature. One breathing only in drink and blood. But it was in the slight glimpses she was given that she saw flickers of something great. It telling of a sentiment unknown in its depth, but vast in its pull to her soul. So, for him to be chained to torment, anguished in miseries awaiting those cast to the seven hells was a burden too great to consider in its bearings.

" But I daresay, in coming to know the piety of your nature, he has surely found peace in where ever he is laden." Fingers trembled and the farcity of her composure threatened to crumble in the seconds standing there. 

" It often, I surmise, is the will of the gods, that holds us to atone for our pasts. And I believe that your recollections are not to shame and punish you, but to press you to grow into what you were always meant to be. "

A simple nod she found she could only respond with. 

" If thy lord would be so kind, I surmise the people may be open to the thought of a holy men's blessings." Eyes once again we're downcast, as the hidden meaning of her words wrought chagrin. 

" I would concur, my Lady." The solace glinting in his eyes lent hope that peace may be attained to even her.


End file.
